


Arthur the Wish Fairy. No, really.

by natcat5



Series: Dark Month 2015 [14]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Faerie AU, M/M, Shooting Stars, This is ridiculous, wish upon a star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5008357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis is trying really hard not to flirt with the scantily clad man that has just appeared in his backyard. </p><p>Amazingly enough, the glitter and the angel wings aren't actually a turn off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arthur the Wish Fairy. No, really.

**Author's Note:**

> this! is! ridiculous!  
> It is 4am, but now I've finished my faerie week. woooooo!

There is a man in his backyard.

It is 2 AM, and there is a strange man, dressed in white and _sparkling,_ in his backyard.

“This is ridiculous,” Francis says, eyebrows in his hairline, “It is so ridiculous that I do not even want to give this situation the dignity of my attention, or consideration. But since you are here, in front of my eyes, wearing a toga with angel wings attached, it seems I have little choice.”

It is a Saturday night, and Francis, unfortunately, is spending it alone at home. It’s a nice night in summer, quiet, and he’d been enjoying a glass of wine in front of his television. The window had been open, and the sky had been beautiful. Clear, and full of stars. He had even seen a shooting star go streaming past, wondrously close, and had closed his eyes to make a wish.

Then he’d heard something crash in his backyard, and run out to see…well.

A scantily clad man with an attitude problem. It’s like the Saturday nights he’d had in college.

“Oh stuff it, would you?” huffs the man, messy-haired, green eyed and, as mentioned, dressed in a toga with angel wings. “This situation is humiliating enough for me as it is. Your prattling certainly isn’t improving it.”

He sounds British. Of course the man who fell out of nowhere into his backyard would be British. Why would he be anything else? And worse, he sounds _posh_ British. Which means he’s probably about a hundred times more insufferable than your average Englishman. Francis isn’t drunk enough for this. He hopes the man has stumbled out of a particularly unique house party and has a bottle of rum hidden under that robe.

Actually, it’s probably best that Francis doesn’t start thinking about what’s under the man’s robe. He’s always had a thing for mouthy blondes and there’s miles of leg visible where the already short toga has bunched forward. If he wasn’t half way through a bottle of wine and an episode of his favourite raunchy soap opera, he might be a bit more composed. But, well. Here he is, suddenly wondering if he should make a pass at the strange man who came from the sky and landed on his ass behind Francis’s house.

Gilbert and Antonio are going to laugh for days.

“What, are you just going to stand there and stare?” challenges the man scornfully, just as insufferable as Francis feared. “We can stand around all night, it’s not going to change the situation.”

“I’m not the one who fell out of the sky and into my back lawn,” sniffs Francis, taking a sip of the glass of Rosé he’d been drinking before the loud crash and ensuing string of expletives had brought him rushing out of his house in his bathrobe. “I’d like to think you are just a lost skydiver or a particularly disoriented aeronaut, but those clothes don’t seem to favour those possibilities.”

He shifts his weight onto one leg and places his free hand on his hip, sighing. “The fact that you look like you’ve been dunked in glitter from head to toe makes me wonder if you’ve gotten very lost on the way to a Gay Pride parade, but it is past 2 in the morning, we’re in rural France, and your skin is glowing. Were you aware of that, by the way? That your skin is glowing?”

The man makes a guarded, half petulant face that makes Francis think that he is very much aware of the fact that his skin is glowing, but does not want to admit to it. Francis does not think that a man wearing a toga, tiny angel wings, and doused in glitter has the right to be obstinate and contrary while sitting on a stranger’s back lawn.

“Never you mind my skin,” the man commands, cheeks red, “I don’t owe you an explanation. This whole thing is an unfortunate accident that I want to get past as quickly as possible. Just tell me your wish, we’ll get this whole business over and done with, and I’ll be on my way.” He folds his arms across his chest, and Francis notices for the first time that he’s got a tiny wand, complete with a glowing star attached to the end. Really, what was he going for with this costume? Roman-angel-wizard?

Wait, what had he said?

“I’m sorry, ‘wish’?” repeats Francis, eyebrow raised, “And what business are you talking about? _Merde,_ don’t tell me you’ve hit your head after falling from…wherever.”

“I’m perfectly in my right mind, and don’t be obtuse!” snaps the man, nostrils flaring, “You were making a wish on me when I got knocked off course. Once I’ve granted it I’ll be on my way. Just tell me what it is.”

Francis stares. And stares some more. The man narrows his eyes.

Franics presses his hand to his eyes and snorts.

“You don’t mean to tell me, that you are masquerading as some kind of Fairy Godmother?” he scoffs, disbelieving, “That’s what that costume is? Has someone hired you? Is my ‘wish’ supposed to be some kind of sexual favour that you will then gladly grant?”

“I- wh- heavens no! What are you- don’t even _think_ about making that kind of wish!” blusters the man, cheeks scarlet. “And I am not a _Godmother._ No, those are few and far between and mostly don’t bother to work with humans anymore. I am just a _wish_ fairy. I grant singular wishes to those who see me as I fly. And if you’d just _tell_ me your wish, we can get this whole sordid affair over with, and I can continue on- and hopefully not get hit by a satellite this time-,”

And that’s it, Francis can’t take it anymore. He leans over, free hand on his knee, and laughs. Just _laughs._ A _wish_ fairy. Who got hit by a satellite and landed in his backyard. And who is still, for some reason, British. His subconscious could not make this up if it tried. Forget _days._ Gilbert and Antonio are going to laugh for _weeks._

“J-just what are you laughing about?” demands the man, hands on hips, “Th-this isn’t a joke!”

“I’m afraid you may not have heard the words that just came out of your mouth,” Francis replies, still shaking with mirth, “Please, say _wish fairy,_ one more time. Laughter clears my skin.”

“Oh, and I suppose you have a perfectly logical explanation for the _glowing,_ is that right?” retorts the man sharply. And Francis-

Francis pauses.

And stares.

That’s, that’s right. The man’s skin _is glowing._ It’s glowing with some kind of golden light, and is littered with glitter, sparkling fragments of light. The sparkles- they could be costume glitter. Could be body paint. But the glow? The glow is…

“Just make a damn wish,” growls the man, waving the wand in Francis’s direction, “And we can both move on with our lives and pretend this unfortunate encounter never happened.”

Well, shit.

“Wait, wait wait wait,” says Francis, waving his hand in the space between them. “Non, non. You can’t do that. You can’t just- a wish? An honest wish? You expect me to come up with that in five seconds?”

“You had one ready when you saw me shooting through the sky!” Complains the man, “That’s the one to use! That’s the one whose intent I felt, anyways. And don’t get to hung up on it. People don’t wish for millions of dollars or for new houses on shooting stars. They wish for miracles. They wish for luck, they wish for better days, they wish for illnesses to heal, and they wish for people they dislike to fall down stairs.” He sighs, hands back on his hips and head tilted. “So? What were you going to wish for?”

What he was going to wish for was a silly, sudden wish that had come to him when he realized how sad it was that he, Francis Bonnefoy, was spending a Saturday night alone in his bathrobe. It was a wish that came from knowing that Antonio was with his boyfriend, and that Gilbert was with his boyfriend and girlfriend, and that Francis was drinking a bottle of wine by himself.

It was a very embarrassing wish, for someone with a past and demeanor like Francis.

Now it’s _his_ cheeks that are turning red. _Merde._

“Well?” insists the man impatiently, “You want to stand out here all night? I’ll catch a cold from this draft.”

Francis coughs into a fist, choosing to savagely banish the image of a gust of wind causing the man’s toga to fly up and reveal everything underneath. Honestly, _down boy._

“We wouldn’t want that,” he says after clearing his throat, “And if it’s honesty you want, in regards to the wish I had prepared, well…”

He is not going to fidget nervously. He is not going to blush any more than he already has and he is not going to be crushed by embarrassment. He’s going to tell the man his wish, with _dignity._

“I wished to have someone to spend the night with,” he admits, fidgeting, blushing, and embarrassed. “Not- necessarily in any sexual way. Just some company. It was the first thing I thought of when I saw the star in the sky; I didn’t have time to think of anything better.” He sounds defensive, he can hear it in his voice. Oh well, the cat’s out of the bag, and he’s now open and raw against any and all mockery.

The man’s, the wish fairy’s, sizeable eyebrows are raised. Then his expression smoothes over into something more neutral, and he nods twice, raising his wand.

“Well that’s easily done,” he says, green eyes luminescent, “Very easy. Your wish will be granted. With a one, two-!”

The wand begins to glow, and the star at the top flares up in a bright flash of light that has Francis raising his arm to cover his face. When he lowers it…

He blinks.

The wish fairy is still there. But he is no longer wearing a white toga with fairy wings attached. Instead, he is wearing green slacks, and a black t-shirt with the Union Jack emblazoned on the front. His skin is no longer glowing and glittery, and he looks like a regular human being. An attractive, regular human being with mussed hair and gorgeous collarbones.

“It’s a bit impromptu, but this is easier than conjuring up a person or orchestrating a series of events that would lead an individual to your front door,” says the man with a shrug, fingers fiddling and eyes towards the ground. “Is it alright? I know it’s kind of a loophole, but-,”

“Non! I mean,” Francis rubs the back of his head, and offers the man a wry smile, “You were in such a rush to be off. Are you sure you do not mind spending the night with me? Not that my company is undesirable. In fact, you should count yourself lucky to have this opportunity.”

The man snorts, arms folded across his chest yet again.

“I’m late enough for where I was going that it’s a lost cause, at this point.” He says dismissively, “And I’ll trust you to put your money where your mouth is. Hopefully you have better entertainment than you in a bathrobe?”

 _Yes, and it involves my mouth being somewhere indecent._ Francis doesn’t say that. He smiles.

“Just this wine, some crappy television, and my company,” he says honestly, “I hope it is enough.”

The man gives him an appraising look, and his expression softens a little. He shrugs, and takes a step forwards.

“Well, I’ll suppose we’ll see,” he says aloofly, “Do you have a name, wishmaker?”

“Francis,” the Frenchman says amiably, “And you, wishgranter?”

“Arthur.”

“Arthur the wish fairy?”

“ _Yes_ , Arthur the wish fairy.”

“It is a _pleasure_ to meet you Arthur,” Francis purrs, before smiling wide and gesturing towards his house. “Shall we begin our evening then?”

**Author's Note:**

> they probably don't have sex. or maybe they do. or maybe Arthur gets drunk off of cheap wine and yells and cries at the shitty soap opera on t.v. and Francis stares at him and falls a little bit in love. who knows?


End file.
